


Fire & Water

by Laclavande



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, i don't actually know what genre(s) to call this, part 1 wasn't originally intended be so dramatic but hey, the plot is: aramis gets trapped in a well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laclavande/pseuds/Laclavande
Summary: Aramis finds himself in deeper trouble than he ever has before. Literally.





	1. Fire

Out of all of the Musketeers, it is probably Aramis who is best at getting himself into trouble. The others may seek trouble purposefully for the sake of a mission, but for Aramis it’s nearly always an accident. It’s like it’s drawn to him like a compass’ point is drawn to the north. On one mission in particular, Aramis would come to find himself in deeper trouble than he ever had before. Literally.

The four musketeers were chasing fugitives. Levard and his gang, they numbered at least three men and five years ago had destroyed a Paris cathedral and several homes, killing four people. Only a few weeks later and they did the same of the cathedral in Sarlat. They had been in hiding ever since, but information had managed to find its way into Paris and into the hands of Captain Treville. They were hiding at a farm only a few miles north of Sarlat and were planning to strike a third time.

Not knowing what the expect, the musketeers arrived at the location two days later. On the road up to the farm, they passed lush meadows and fields of cows, the grass under them not so lush. Up ahead, a two-storey farmhouse and the barn across from it were the only buildings in the area. The Musketeers stopped when the farmstead came into view.

    “So what’s our plan?” asked Porthos of his comrades. The deeply religious Aramis, the one amongst them with the most hate in his heart for these criminals, leaned onto the horn of his saddle.

    “I say we go in weapons drawn.”

“We’ll see if they’re here first. If they are, we’ll ask them to come quietly,” said Athos. Aramis straightened and said to his friend soberly,

    “These are dangerous men, Athos.”

“Potentially… But so are we.” 

D’Artagnan smirked at this, then pulled his spyglass from its place in his saddlebag and brought it up to his eye, looking down at the farmstead. There were the two buildings, a well between them, and to the right of it, he spied two men splashing buckets of water over each other's heads, washing their hair. The windows at the back of the house were all obscured, he couldn’t see anyone else.

    “Two men down by the well,” counted d’Artagnan, “Probably more inside. Can’t tell.”

“Let’s go say hello,” said Athos, “Aramis, you hang back. Do not start shooting unless we’re attacked.”

Three Musketeers continued down the road while another left it, riding over to the field of wheat to the right of the house. He had a feeling that things were going to get messy. He was never much a fan of trying to reason with men like Levard, and he knew the same of Athos, but both were forced to resign to the fact that as the King’s Musketeers, they had to do things a certain way.

As the others slowly made their way to the farmstead, Aramis tied his horse to the small tree by the house. All the windows were covered by shabby makeshift curtains even though it was the middle of the day. Odd or not, this allowed Aramis to remain unseen. He took his musket and slunk away towards the wheat field. The still green crop was not very tall, but it gave him enough cover and he had a good view of the scene. He watched from afar as the others came from around the other side of the house.

The men scrubbing their heads with soap stopped what they were doing. They spat on the ground and wiped their faces upon the Musketeers’ approach. From high up on his horse, Athos spoke to them,

    “We’re here for Levard and his followers, as well as whoever has harboured them.”

The two men looked at each other and then back up at Athos. The man on Athos’ left stepped forward, the dark hair on his head patterned with tiny white bubbles,

    “There’s no one by that name here. We’re simple farmers. We harbour no one.”

Athos looked behind him at Porthos. He had one of his pistols at his thigh, subtly aimed at the man on the right. Porthos quirked his brows and gave him a typical Porthos grin. D’Artagnan beside him also gave a nonchalant nod. They saw right past this man’s lie. They were ready for whatever came next.

    “So you wouldn’t mind us looking around then?”

The sudsy man looked again at his friend, who only had a nervous look about him, his eyes darting from one musketeer to the next.

    “I think we mind a bit…”

“Good!” said Athos cheerfully, disregarding the man’s reluctance. And he dismounted, d’Artagnan and Porthos following suit. As Athos made his way to the house, Porthos went over to the barn and d’Artagnan threw his arms around the damp shoulders of the men, who only reacted by stiffening skittishly.

    “This way, gentlemen,” he said and followed Athos who crept into the house with his pistol drawn. It was a simple home. The furniture was old and the walls were bare. In the front room, a man was sat reading a weathered Bible in the dim light by the front window. He was acting as if he hadn’t noticed the strangers’ arrival.

    “Levard,” Athos sighed instinctively. The man closed the book and looked up. Half his head was bald, a mess of rosy, bumpy burn scars covering the whole right side of his head and face down to his shoulder. His dark eyes held nothing behind them. He looked at Athos with a devious smile. There was no denying that this was the radical Levard.

 

Meanwhile, Porthos had managed to shove open the barn door. For a working farm, it did seem rather empty. It was dark inside, most of the light coming in through the gaps in the walls. But when Porthos entered, the midday sun shone through the huge open door, illuminating the whole space. Porthos walked slowly and carefully, not knowing what might be in there. Dwindling, rotting hay stores lined the walls, loose stalks blanketing the dirt floor. Suddenly, Porthos sneezed. Like his laughter and his yells, he sneezed tremendously loud. He sniffed and blinked away the moisture in his watering eyes. The next time they had a mission in the countryside, he was going to find a way to get out of it. 

Porthos proceeded to rummage through the dry fodder, looking for anyone who might be hiding in it. He went along the long pile, soon resorting to shoving the butt of his pistol deep into the hay.

 

 

    “Have you read this?”

Athos and d’Artagnan were silent as Levard reclined in his chair with the worn leather upholstery. He waved the Bible in his hand before tossing it onto the dusty floor with a flick of his wrist.

    “Don’t bother,” he said. Athos raised his pistol at him as d’Artagnan shoved the still sudsy men into the next room and pushed them both onto the twin beds with a placid smirk. He wasn’t one to treat deceivers with much kindness.

    “We’re not here for your theatrics. I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers, and you Levard, are under arrest for your acts of terror and treason.”

Levard laughed, unfazed by the weapon aimed at him. 

    “And you complained about my theatrics!”

“I’m asking you to come quietly. Though I am already of the mind to just shoot you.”

 

 

It would appear that no one was hiding in the barn, but at the back of it, the butt of Porthos’ pistol hit something with a dull thud. He brushed some of the hay away to reveal a small barrel. Knowing better, but still praying for rum, he lifted the lid. The barrel was full to the brim with gunpowder. After he put his pistol away, Porthos frantically brushed more hay to reveal another barrel. Then another. Then ten, then twenty, all stacked on top of each other and lining the whole back wall. Staring at this deadly collection, Porthos was breathing heavy. This was definitely enough powder to destroy a cathedral or two alright.

    “ATHOS!” Porthos boomed as he stormed out of the barn. From inside the house, everyone except for Levard turned their attention to the sound. Aramis popped his head up from his spot in the field to see Porthos stomping past the well. Anticipating a forthcoming mess, he slid over to the house and stayed crouched close to the wall.

Athos took a step back to see out the front door, his weapon still pointed at Levard. In a flash, the heretic launched himself at the musketeer, the pistol firing into the ceiling as Athos toppled into d’Artagnan. Levard bolted out of the house. Porthos drew his sword and rushed at him, but he evaded.

Inside, the two men seized the opportunity and leapt over the musketeers while they were still on the ground. Athos tried to swipe at one of their legs as they too went out the front door, but missed.

 

 

Porthos chased Levard. He was running towards the barn.

    “Aramis! Shoot him!” called Porthos into the open, not knowing where his friend was, but not even a second later when Aramis was just about to fire, he quickly exclaimed, “Wait no! Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot him!”

Levard had ducked into the barn. The last thing they wanted was for the powder inside to detonate.

 

 

Levard’s two followers scampered outside and hastily pulled the reins of the Musketeers’ horses that were positioned patiently by the well.

    “Levard!” one of them shouted after his leader. They were trying to get away, but they only got as far as the side of the house where cut wood was haphazardly stacked and covered in grit from the road. Athos and d’Artagnan had gathered themselves up and ran to apprehend them, their swords at the ready. Just before the two musketeers could use them however, the wood was knocked over, almost hitting d’Artagnan who hopped over the pieces, and Levard’s men retrieved their own weapons that were hidden in the woodpile.

 

 

Grumbling to himself, Aramis followed Porthos into the fray. He was several paces behind when Porthos ran into the barn, where he found Levard scrambling at the bottom of a pile of hay. Porthos extended his sword at him from a few feet away.

    “This ends now,” he said. Levard got up slowly but did not turn around to face him.

“That it will,” he purred. Porthos heard the familiar click of a closing frizzen and then Levard spun around, the barrel of the pistol brought up to Porthos’ heart. Thinking quickly, he lunged and batted the pistol to the side with the tip of his sword as it was firing. The sparks alone could’ve set the barn alight. Porthos fell to the ground.

    “Hey!” shouted Aramis as he reached the door of the barn. His musket was aimed at Levard. His appearance was striking, but it was not because of the man’s scars that Aramis was hesitant to shoot. It was Porthos that had told him not to. But now Porthos was down. Surely he’d want him to make the shot now.

 

 

Athos and d’Artagnan clashed swords with their combatants. The men fought ferociously, but the Musketeers had the superior skill. D’Artagnan came down hard on his opponent, knocking him onto his back, but he kept fighting. He rolled to the side, dodging a downward stab from d’Artagnan and ended up back on his feet.

With every movement of his sword, Athos stepped closer to his opponent, who quickly found himself backed up against the wall. His face was contorted in desperation as he tried to match the speed of Athos’ strikes. It wasn’t long before he failed and Athos landed one across the side of his neck. He slid down the wall, clutching the wound. The blood that warmed his hand was shockingly red as it seeped into his shirt.

D’Artagnan continued to struggle with his adversary who screamed in his face as he pushed to take down the musketeer. Their blades caught each other and the two were in each other’s grip for a few moments, their eyes daring the other to make a move. It was d’Artagnan that moved first. He pushed up. Screeching steel rang in their ears as the blades disconnected. He spun around and grabbed the man’s shoulder from behind before driving the tip of his sword through him. The sounds of the crunching of bone being scraped and the ripping of flesh were sickening. The man looked down. The same shocking red that covered his friend glistened on the blade protruding from his gut. 

 

 

On his belly on the floor of the barn, Porthos was not fighting the encroaching darkness that usually came when he had just been shot or otherwise seriously wounded. He was, however, fighting a tickle in his nose.

Levard dropped his spent pistol, but he did not raise his hands in surrender. Aramis glanced at his friend on the ground. Porthos was alive, that much he could tell.

    “Look behind me,” Levard said ever so casually, “Just look behind me.”

Aramis did so. He saw the partially hidden stacks of barrels at the back of the barn, not ten feet away. He knew them to be full of gunpowder.

    “You shoot me from where you’re standing. Well… Boom!”

Aramis made quick calculations in his head. He may be an excellent marksman, but with this positioning and close range, even he could fail. If he crouched and shot upwards, or stepped to the side, _maybe_ he could land a shot on Levard and not touch the powder. But Levard was so unpredictable, and he was standing so close. The ball would go through him no matter what. Levard was right. In a space like this, the risk was too great.

Aramis decided to charge. He strutted up to Levard and went to strike him down with a blow, hard and heavy with the end of his musket, but Levard was quick and surprisingly strong. He countered the attack and gripped the weapon while it was still in Aramis’ hands. Levard’s unsettling bored expression turned into one of anger. He reminded Aramis of a wild dog.

    “You shouldn’t have done that,” he snapped, and he started pushing Aramis, the musket between them. His strength was astounding. Aramis could not keep his footing, he kept being pushed back further and further. Both men had a firm grip on the musket. They continued to struggle outside, neither willing to let go as that would surely spell death. Aramis eyed the still burning slow match. If he managed to rip it out, it’d render the weapon useless, but in the middle of this bizarre dance they were doing, Aramis didn’t see how that was possible. Through his own grunting, Aramis heard a booming sneeze. Levard heard it too and faltered for a moment, a very brief one, but a moment Aramis would not waste. He let go of the weapon entirely and ducked. He spun around as he came back up. They were still so close to each other, the end of the blue sash around Aramis’ waist whipped Levard’s leg as he moved. Aramis stumbled backwards and unsheathed his sword. Levard now had the musket. Aramis thought that he’d feel more at ease being armed, but this was not the case. He still felt rather defenceless. Though is a musketeer ever truly without defence?

From behind them, Porthos rushed out. The left arm of his uniform sported a hole in the leather, the rest of which was barely slick with blood. He was completely fine.

    “Stay back, Porthos!” Aramis called out to him, and he begrudgingly did so as d’Artagnan and Athos came over.

    “Your accomplices are dead. If you put the weapon down, we’ll let you live,” said Athos. Levard was aiming at Aramis but he hadn’t yet squeezed the trigger. He was surrounded by four musketeers with only one shot. He was taking his time. He broke out into a deranged cackle and shouted,

    “But the punishment for my crimes is execution!”

He laughed maniacally but did not compromise his posture or aim. D’Artagnan, afraid for Aramis, chose a more forceful approach, yelling,

    “Put it down now!”

Slowly, gradually, Levard’s laughter died down and ended with a sigh. He brought his eyes up to the man in front of him, the eyes that held nothing behind them. He stared at the little golden cross hanging around Aramis’ neck, just resting on the first frog that was actually done up on his coat. And he gave a huff. And he steadied his hold on the musket as he said to Aramis,

    “Luck is my saviour.”

Then without taking his gaze from the cross, he twisted to point the two-handed weapon at the open door of the barn. It was a clear shot down the length of the building. With the barrel of his own gun no longer staring him in the face and very quickly realising what was about to happen, Aramis went to cut Levard down. The musket went off with a _bang_ right in his ear as his sword came down on Levard’s arm. 

Immediately, one barrel exploded in a blast that took some of the roof down. And it was then that everyone tried to get away, cowering and sheltering under their own arms. The horses back by the house reared and squealed. What came next was the loudest sound any of the Musketeers had ever heard as subsequent explosions erupted, sending flaming debris into the air. And an airy gust of searing heat, like dropping your hand into a fire. The force of the explosions forced them all back. D’Artagnan and Athos were furthest away, they toppled to the ground like abused dolls in a nursery. Porthos was closer, he flew backwards and landed hard with a thump, several feet away.

Levard and Aramis were blown back violently. Directly behind them was the well. Levard smashed into it, damaging the roof and dislodging several stones. They fell into the dark abyss. And so did Aramis. His back hit the stones hard and he fell backwards, headfirst. No splash was heard over the sound of the final explosion and the ringing in everyone’s ears.

 

 

 


	2. Water

Aramis really thought he was going to die. It was like the ending of the nightmares he had as a child. No matter what was chasing him, he always ended up falling into a black pit and waking with a start when he hit the bottom. But this was different. He hit the water but did not wake up.

The water slowed him and he touched the muddy bottom rather gently, but floundered, his mind confused. Eventually he managed to push up from the bottom and he broke through the surface a few seconds later, spluttering and coughing and everything hurting. The splashing and spluttering echoed down there like an empty cathedral, but Aramis couldn’t yet hear anything.

He tread water the best he could while he caught his breath, then moved to the walls to find something to hold onto. He slapped smooth slimy stones all the way around. His fingers slipped from every crevice. Then he found a stone that jutted out from the wall. It came out far enough for him to smack a hand down upon it and keep himself up. He was exhausted, but he was alive. He muttered a prayer in thanks.

Above ground, dust was settling. Athos struggled to his feet and looked around, dazed. He pressed a hand to his aching ear and winced with the pain of it. Still on the ground next to him was d’Artagnan, who rolled over and flopped onto his back, also clearly experiencing some discomfort. He opened his eyes to see Athos over him, and the older musketeer helped him to his feet. As the air cleared, they got a better view of the aftermath. The barn was simply gone. Only a few beams remained, planks strewn about all over the place. And close by, a few pieces of the building were on fire on the ground, next to Porthos. He was lying on his back, his whole body camouflaged by dirt.

“Porthos!” gasped d’Artagnan and he rushed to his side, falling to his knees on the ground. He put a hand to Porthos’ crown, and another to his chest, trying desperately to determine if he was breathing. When d’Artagnan’s hand made contact, Porthos’ chest rose high, his breath strong, and he coughed violently, rolling to his side. He was severely winded after the ordeal.

“Are you alright?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Never better,” wheezed Porthos, “Where’s Aramis?”

D’Artagnan rose to his feet and he and Athos looked around.

“Aramis!” they both called. Porthos started to get up, and d’Artagnan helped him. He hunched over, clutching his middle as he stumbled around.

“Aramis!” he called, soon followed by a bought of coughing and wheezing.

“He was here a minute ago,” fretted Athos. They continued to shout their friend’s name, and Athos came upon Levard. He was covered in blood and dust, slumped against the well beneath an empty space where some stones were missing, Aramis’ musket stranded some feet away. Athos crouched and checked for signs of life, but found none. They all called for Aramis once more.

Down in the well, Aramis was regaining his hearing. Faintly, he heard his name.

“Down here!” he yelled, his voice resounding and reverberating. It sounded ghostly. Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan all stopped in their tracks and looked at each other. Then they turned to the well. Yes, the voice was coming from the well. And yes, they had all heard it. They all crept to the edge of the well and looked down. There was Aramis, far below them, up to his armpits in water, black as the night sky. 

“Hey,” he said with a small wave up at his friends.

“Aramis. My God. Are you alright?” Athos called down, his voice also echoing. Aramis gave a huff of laughter to himself before saying,

“What’s the use in complaining?”

“We’ll get you out. Don’t worry,” said d’Artagnan and he grabbed for the rope holding the bucket. The roof and its supports were broken so he unwound the rope from the pulley and Athos and Porthos took hold of it when the other end was tossed down the well.

“Tie it around yourself,” said d’Artagnan as Athos and Porthos got in line behind him.

“I’m ready!”

And they started to pull. For three strong musketeers, pulling the weight of a man, even with wet clothes and Porthos’ injured arm, is easy enough. Aramis started to rise out of the water, his underarms in great discomfort as the rope dug into him. The bottom of his coat was just starting to drip with running water when the discomfort under Aramis’ arms ceased. He dropped suddenly and unceremoniously back into the water, most of the rope following him, with a much less dramatic splash than last time. His friends above suddenly fell backwards on top of each other, Porthos at the back getting the full brunt of the impact, and they all rolled over, groaning.

The rope had been thin and brittle and had simply snapped as it grazed against the rough stone. It didn’t have the strength to haul up anything heavier than a bucket of water. D’Artagnan pulled his piece of the rope towards himself and inspected the frayed end dejectedly. Porthos rushed to the well and called down,

“Aramis! Are you—” 

“I’m fine!” Aramis called, wiping the water from his face with his soggy glove as he held himself up with his other hand on the wall. Athos and d’Artagnan came to the edge too.

“I guess you live down there now,” Athos joked.

“We’ll find something else to get you out with. Just hold on,” said d’Artagnan and he quickly began searching on the ground, looking for anything useful amidst the debris and destruction.

“At the moment that’s all I can do.”

“There might be something in the house,” suggested Porthos, and he and d’Artagnan jogged up to the farmhouse together. Athos stayed at the well. He didn’t want to leave Aramis alone for a second. Although deep down there, it didn’t matter if he had a crowd of people above him, Aramis was so very alone.

“Where’s Levard?” he asked. Athos cast a gaze across the well. On the other side of it was Levard, just out of sight.

“He’s dead.”

Aramis gave a gentle sigh of relief that echoed all the way up to Athos. He had been a nightmare of a man. Aramis couldn’t bring himself to pray for his soul like he occasionally did for those they vanquished. Not this time.

D’Artagnan and Porthos came back empty handed, Porthos shaking his head. Athos was disgruntled.

“This is a farm isn’t it?” he said, “There’s no rope? A ladder? Anything?”

“I think it all got blown up…” quipped Porthos. D’Artagnan gave a huff of almost-laughter and he and Porthos shared an amused smile as Athos walked away for a moment, looking up at the sparse clouds in thought, both hands on his hips. They all looked around for inspiration, hoping the others would come up with the perfection suggestion so all four of them could go home, while Aramis down in the well switched from holding himself up with his left hand to his right. He’d only been down there a few minutes and already he was growing very tired. Of course he trusted his friends to get him out, but the silence above was concerning.

After a minute of rolling lips and heavy sighing and d’Artagnan opening his mouth only to say nothing, Athos turned around.

“We need to get help. I’ll ride out.”

Porthos went towards him, saying,

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Athos. Remember the last place we passed? That was probably two hours ago, maybe a bit less, but it’s far.”

“And do you think a lone house by a river has the hundred _pieds_ of rope we need?” added d’Artagnan. Athos tilted his head and said,

“It’s not a hundred _pieds._ ” 

“The point is…” Porthos said, gesturing at nothing, “Aramis is really stuck. And knowing him, he’s probably hiding an injury or two. How long can we afford to leave him down there?”

“We have no choice,” said d’Artagnan decidedly, “At least one of us has to leave and get help. Obviously the sooner the better.”

Porthos looked between his comrades before saying,

“I’ll go.”

Athos shook his head,

“Not you, Porthos. You yourself are injured,” he said. It wasn’t entirely true. Although it was merely a graze and he was trying not to let it bother him, Porthos’ arm was starting to hurt, and if he were to be honest, he’d say that his whole body ached from his hard landing after the explosion, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help his brother, so instead he replied,

“I’m fine.”

Athos ignored him, saying,

“I’ll go. You and d’Artagnan stay and keep Aramis company… Keep him optimistic.”

“Optimistic?” d’Artagnan said confusedly as Athos started back towards the well.

“Yeah. Optimistic… Aramis!” he called, and the trapped musketeer looked up,

“Time to get out?”

“Not quite, I’m afraid. I’m off to get help. Don’t die down there before I get back.”

“I’ll try my best.”

And with a final pat of a stone, Athos walked over to the stout hazel tree behind the house, Porthos and d’Artagnan not far behind. The horses hadn’t bolted, they were where he and d’Artagnan had hastily secured them, though they were still skittish. Athos led his horse away from the tree and towards the road before getting astride.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“We know,” said d’Artagnan and they clasped hands. Porthos walked up and did the same, Athos being the one to tell him,

“He’ll be fine in the end. Always is.”

“I know.”

 

 

“If I toss a coin down there, do you think the spirit in the well will grant me a wish?”

D’Artagnan and Porthos had moved the bodies and stamped out the remains of the fires that smouldered amidst the ruins of the barn. Now they were keeping Aramis company, trying to keep his spirits up. Aramis wasn’t much in the mood. His arms were tired. His back was hurting. And he was so cold and wet.

“I’ll say yes just because I want to watch you waste _your_ money for once,” said Porthos. The young Gascon was so frugal it was close to infuriating for the always-out-of-coin Porthos. He called down to the musketeer in the well,

“What do you think, Aramis? Is a silver piece worth a wish?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he replied, “A wish has got to be worth… Hmm… How much have you got?”

D’Artagnan laughed at this.

“I don’t know, let me see… I don’t bring a lot of money on missions you know.”

Porthos kept the thought to himself that d'Artagnan didn’t bring his purse everywhere because he expected everyone else to pay for him.

“Here we go,” said d’Artagnan as he walked back over, having retrieved his purse from his saddlebags, and he poured its contents onto the palm of his hand. He grimaced when he saw how much there was. He put half the coins back into the purse under the amused eye of Porthos before leaning over the edge of the well and telling Aramis,

“Five sous!”

“Give it a try then.”

D’Artagnan held a coin over the centre of the well and carefully released it. He and Porthos leaned over the edge, watching it drop. It plummeted down the shaft and Aramis reached out and snatched it from the air. D’Artagnan dropped another coin and again Aramis caught it easily, a smile on his face down in the dark. D’Artagnan held the last coin out to Porthos,

“Want to have a go?”

“I’ll take any opportunity to drop something on Aramis’ head.”

“I heard that.”

Porthos tossed the coin. It didn’t drop straight down. It bounced off the walls on the way down, an echoed _ping_ heard every time. Aramis let go of the wall and kicked off to get to the other side. He caught the coin in one hand and went under. Was it unwise to submerge himself again after his top half was just starting to dry? Perhaps. But the thrill of the catch seemed worth it to Aramis. He also now had five sous in his pocket.

“And your wish, d’Artagnan?” Porthos beamed, having witnessed Aramis diving for his coin.

“It’ll come true,” was his simple reply. 

 

 

More time passed, the sun dipping to sit on the roof of the farmhouse. The afternoon would soon turn to evening, and Aramis was still trapped, Athos yet to return. Porthos had left the well and come back with three yellow apples. He handed one to d’Artagnan who leaned his backside on the well and took a greedy bite. Another, Porthos tossed down the well after signalling,

“Aramis. Here.”

He was more careful than he was with the coin, and the fruit plopped into the water and bobbed up and down. Aramis was facing the wall, both sets of frozen fingers gripping the stone that held him up, his head downcast. Upon hearing his name, followed by a distinct _plop_ , he turned and could barely make out the shape of the apple in the dark. Annoyed that to get the food he’d have to let go with one of his hands, he took a moment before doing so. He crunched down on the apple. It was tart and gritty but it satiated his hunger.

“Do you think we could drop something down there to keep him out of the water?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos through his chewing.

“Like what?”

“Wood floats. And we have plenty of that to spare.”

Porthos scoffed,

“Are you suggesting we build a small raft?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly, but now I definitely am.”

Porthos had been kidding, but now he wanted to see where this project went. As the two musketeers above ground collected some of the more solid planks that survived the explosion, the rather miserable musketeer below ground dropped his half-eaten apple. It rolled over on the surface of the water as it continued to bob. He was going over the events that lead to his fall over and over again in his head. 

“ _This is all my fault_ ,” Aramis thought to himself, his fingers numb as he clung to the wall, “ _My own damn fault. I could’ve gotten us all killed. I should’ve taken the shot when I had the chance. Should’ve been braver. I had so many chances to do things differently… But I was too much of a coward and this is the result. I deserve to be stuck down here.”_

_“_ Hey Aramis!”

It was d’Artagnan’s voice. Aramis’ head was resting on his arm as he continued to cling to the wall. He tilted his head just enough to look up towards the top of the well. There was d’Artagnan, crouched on the ground looking down at him through the gap.

“We want to try something. Something that we hope will make you more comfortable.”

D’Artagnan picked up a funny-looking invention. It looked like it had been put together by a child. Several pieces of wood, most of them blackened and charred, were loosely bound together by scraps of rope through the natural knots and splits in the wood. Aramis stared up at it confusedly as d’Artagnan held it up proudly.

“How exactly is that going to make me comfortable?”

D’Artagnan shrugged and looked at his creation. He had obviously convinced himself that it would work and was definitely not a waste of time.

“You can sit on it. Here.”

“D’Artagnan, no-“

The ugly contraption dropped into the water. D’Artagnan had leaned down as far as he could without falling in himself and it smacked down onto the water, a spray kicking up in Aramis’ face. It floated. Sort of. Aramis just thanked God that it had missed his head.

“Go on, try it.”

“It was all d’Artagnan’s idea,” came the voice of Porthos.

Irritated now, Aramis once again let his fingers slip from their home on the wall and reached for the floating wood. It was barely floating, really. The water sat on top of it like a blanket, but the wood still had enough buoyancy to keep it from sinking further. Aramis surmised that there must not be many lakes or rivers in Gascony if this was what d’Artagnan thought a boat was supposed to be. He also surmised that it wouldn’t hurt to indulge d’Artagnan.

Treading water, his chin below the surface, Aramis pulled the raft behind himself and dragged it under his behind. Surprisingly, under the water, he felt it pulling towards the surface. This didn’t last very long, however. As soon as he stopped kicking and put his weight on it, a piece of rope came loose and the whole thing came apart in two in his hands. He let go and went back to his spot at the wall, leaving the pieces to float on the ripples he left behind. 

D’Artagnan winced,

“It didn’t work. Well, that was a waste of time.”

“Aren’t rafts usually made with logs?”

“Not now, Porthos.”

 

 

Each breath was shaky. It was becoming more difficult than ever to hold on. Aramis could no longer tell if the involuntary movement in his arms was the tremble caused by tired muscles or simply shivers from the cold. He could sense his mind slipping, confusion setting in. He had witnessed the sickness that takes hold of men in extreme cold and the thought of it happening to him was frightening. Being trapped at the bottom of a well for a few hours may not be the same as lying wounded on a battlefield in the middle of a winter’s night, but how cold did he have to be to experience its more serious effects? This was not something Aramis wanted to experiment with.

“How’re you doing, Aramis?” Porthos called down after a long silence.

“I’ve h-had better a-afternoons,” Aramis replied, his voice warbled from the shivering. Porthos gazed down at him, frustrated that there was nothing he could do to ease his friend’s suffering. 

“The sun’s setting now,” d’Artagnan sighed. The sky was turning orange, the clouds also settling down upon the horizon. The sun was behind the house now, it no longer warmed d’Artagnan and Porthos, and it was about to get even colder for Aramis.

“Wh-where’s Athos?” Aramis asked. Porthos could’ve sworn he heard an echoed sob. The question d’Artagnan and Porthos had been asking themselves all day. They had begun to worry something had happened, though neither voiced this worry. They had been tasked with keeping Aramis optimistic, to do that they had to remain optimistic themselves.

“He’ll be back soon,” Porthos told Aramis. He did not know this to be true, but if nothing else, Porthos had faith in Athos.

Just then, the musketeers heard the familiar sound of pounding hooves. They stood to attention, listening to the pattern.

“One rider,” noted d’Artagnan.

“Athos?”

“God, I hope so.”

Porthos readied a pistol and walked around the well, d’Artagnan walking from the other side in synchronicity, and from around the bend came the rider. They quickly identified him as Athos. Finally he was back, but did he bring with him the means to save Aramis?

“Well, well, well,” said the musketeer when he had dismounted. His greeting was met with groaning. How long did it take for him to come up with that one?

The men embraced, Porthos giving Athos a strong pat on the back. Athos seemed exhausted.

“You really didn’t have to ride all the way back to Paris to get rope,” said d’Artagnan. Athos picked up the length of rope from the back of the saddle. It was thick, strong, and most importantly, it was very long indeed.

“I didn’t take that long,” he replied.

“Am I hallucinating or is that Athos?!” Came a sudden echoed shout. Athos jogged with the rope over to the well.

“Yes, Aramis, it’s me. We’re going to get you out now.”

“Aw… S-so s-soon?” Aramis said through his shivering.

Athos unlooped the rope from itself and it fell into a heap at his feet. One end was put over the side and fed down. When it reached him, Aramis grabbed it like a child catching a butterfly, the happiness evident on his face, though no one was there to see it. A few moments later and he was rising up out of the water, his feet walking up the wall and water dripping off of him. Finally he reached the top and a firm hand was there to help him over the edge. Weakly, he toppled over the stone, but Porthos was there to catch him. When he was back on his feet for the first time in a long time, Aramis hugged Porthos, and on his cheek was laid a hard kiss. D’Artagnan hugged him next, his whole face scrunched in a smile. Then Athos embraced him.

“Thank you, ah thank you,” said Aramis. Softly in his ear, Athos whispered,

“Glad to see you’re… Well.”

In that moment Aramis was so happy he just couldn’t be mad.

“Come, we’ll go inside, get a fire going to warm you up,” someone said, but Aramis didn’t move for a few moments. For the first time, he was seeing the devastation his hesitancy had caused. He knew the barn was gone, of course he knew, but actually seeing it was something else. Although none of them were killed, and the explosion was what eliminated the man they had been sent there to dispose of, Aramis couldn’t help but be upset by the sight, feeling such shame.

 

 

The four musketeers, all together again, stayed the night at the farm. Stripped of his wet clothes and sat in front of a fire, Aramis warmed quickly. D’Artagnan sat down next to him and handed him some bread and a mug of sweet malty ale. Aramis sighed before taking a drink and he stared into the fire. It crackled and settled and the warmth of it was glorious. Softly, d’Artagnan said to him,

“My wish came true, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading and all your kind words <3  
> [BTW I made a Constagnan fanvid if you're into that](https://youtu.be/yQaujxWlCvU)


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